Bees

I came home from work early after a punishing night of sleep. The house was empty and the weather outside was still. I sat down in a chair next to an open window and heard a low hum, which came from a blossoming mock-orange tree that was covered with bees.

The large tree shades the west side of my house and it blooms in the winter. The flowers eventually fall like snowflakes to the ground where they gather like a layer of dust. But now the bees visit and exploit them as the white flowers send out a strong, sweet fragrance.

An old political columnist named Dan Walters once told me his newspaper, the Sacramento Bee, was given that name because bees are known for hard work. The Mormons claim the beehive as their symbol because it illustrates harmony and industry, which bring sweet rewards.

Today, industry has only brought me aching muscles and a hope that I may be able to lie down in the daylight and sleep. The bees should shame me into having a better spirit. But I look at them from middle age, when finishing one day and getting up the next can feel like turning a heavy crank.

Life is a gift but we can lose the gift of seeing it that way. I’ll rest and hope for a change in the feelings that brew in my heart. Meanwhile, the flowers will open and fall; the bees will do their work as nature turns its own crank.